Boulder – Sally Taylor

Boulder, CO – “You’ve Almost Reached Sally Taylor” – Sept 27, 1999

I’ve been home a week and life feels soooooo stagnant. Where the motion of life on the road once allowed my emotions to vent off me in great plumes of colorful streamers down the highway, they now land in stagnant clumps. Loneliness, anxiety, fear, joy, and rage all pile up inside me like a mess of loose, clotted yarn. Sure I had some terminal illness, I made an appointment with my chiropractor, Dr. Dougan on Thursday. He muscle tested me and said that while my adrenals were spent and my skin dehydrated, my “dis-ease” was in my head. “You’re perfectly healthy,” he insisted, pressing down with a grunt on my forearm. But I still felt gnarly as I walked home, like gristle spit politely into a cotton napkin and squirreled away under a table.

We were in such a rush to get home after Nashville, racing west through the night against the sun’s rise in the east. I fell through my front door in Boulder at 3 am like a marathoner crossing the finish line. I was exhausted, sweating under the weight of so many bags and guitar cases. Home smelled wrong, like a cheap plastic baby doll head left on a radiator. Was this what home always smelled like? I wondered as I dropped my bags on the couch. Not recalling what normal people do at home, I wandered toward the blinking red light on my answering machine. My outgoing message played first:

“Hey, you’ve almost reached Sally Taylor. I’m out of town for a month and a half and won’t be checking this machine ‘til the end of September so I hope you don’t need a ride to the emergency room or an urgent answer to a math problem unless it’s 294.56… and then, well, you’re welcome. Call you in the fall.” A beep preceded a flood of old messages that crackled from my ancient, crusty machine. They were from people I’d forgotten were friends inviting me to parties long since over. There was one from my mom reminding me to call her best friend on her birthday and one from Dad who forgot I was on the road and wanted to make sure I renewed my passport.

As I listened to the endless stream of messages marking the months I’d missed, I forgot how tired I was just ten minutes ago in the van and started doing things I’d left undone in July. I picked up the vacuum I’d left lying in the living room and finished the dishes in the sink. I cleared the refrigerator, chucking the half-empty, molding Ragu sauce and a petrified slice of pizza left uncovered on a paper plate. I changed the ink in my printer and a light bulb in the ceiling and as the sun finally caught up with me in our race around the planet, it found me unpacking my bags. I put a load of laundry through before allowing myself the comfort of my bed.

In the clean house I’d meant to leave myself to return to, I crawled under a familiar blanket, put on my stupid sky-blue retainer with the glitter tiger on it, which I’ll have to wear for the rest of my life (thanks Dr. Lempshin) and set myself an alarm for 10 am. Then, with a sigh, I blissfully fell asleep for the next 30 hours.

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Boulder, CO – “HOME” – June 17, 1999

We finally made it through Kansas.

I’m sure I speak for all 1-70 cross-country drivers when I propose Kansas divide herself up into two halves, east, and west, just so she doesn’t seem so damn long to drive across. Alternatively, she could grow some small hills so that an innocent driver doesn’t have to see all 600 naked miles of her at the same time.

Kenny snored, the radio crackled between stations, I took the pre-dawn shift and burnt through Missouri at 85 MPH. I like the road first thing in the morning—no squinting, no traffic, just the sun rising in the rearview mirror and a cocoa coffee in my lap.

It wasn’t hard getting to Boulder ahead of schedule. In fact, what we’d approximated to be a 13-hour drive minimum, turned out to be more like 11.5 and the sun was just melting over the flat irons when we topped what we’ve come to call Boulder Turnpike’s “Home Base Hill.” It’s a crest over which the town of Boulder spreads itself like a smooth layer of peanut butter under the razor-sharp knife of the Flatirons. Driving over it feels like diving into a warm pool of sweet familiar memories. “Home Base Hill“ signifies the end of a tour and boy, was it a sight for sore eyes.

But the longest drive of a tour isn’t the overnight one from Baltimore to Pitsburg or even the flat endless one through naked, windy Kansas. The longest drive of a tour takes place once you’re already back in town but need to drop each player off before getting to your own doorstep.

First off the road is always Kenny who lives in Broomfield, a Boulder suburb. We unload his bass amp, hug his wife and daughter hello, and hurridly bid Kenny goodbye. Leaving him feels as unnatural as saying farewell to my left arm and yet, the pull of my bed is so strong I rush the act and hop back into the van, tighten the reins, and spur our white steed on. Next off the road is Brian with his drum kit which suddenly feels unreasonably large and has way too many pieces.

Brian likes a long goodbye with logistics about rehearsals and next gigs which could have been discussed at any time during the last 24 hours!!!!

Finally, we drop Soucy off at his house. He almost forgets his guitar he’s running so fast to his front door. The anticipation increases with every goodbye at every home that’s not yours until the van is suddenly wayyyyyy too empty, and it’s just you and Delucchi in a deafeningly quiet white whale of a van called “Moby.” I’m the 4th to be dropped off and boy, isn’t it nice to be home again…. Then again, the road is a nice home too.

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Boulder, CO – “Band-o-Babes” – The Fox Theater- April 22, 1999

Last night, a dozen badass babes stormed the stage at The Fox Theater for “The Women From Mars,” CD release party. Each of us had contributed a song to the compilation going on sale that night. Proceeds would go to fighting breast cancer and MS.

The song I contributed to the Women From Mars CD

“The Women from Mars” is a composite of Boulder-based-musician-babes who got sick being ships in the night due to hectic touring schedules and booked a monthly gig in town to support and inspire one another (and howl at the moon). No matter where we are in our travels, we do our best to make it back for these gigs (all of which support breast cancer awareness and prevention) womenfrommars.com.

I met up with my songstress sisters early on the morning of the gig for a group radio interview at KCNU. A dusting of winter white covered crocus and daffodils. Snow in April is just one of the strange little quirks of living in Colorado. I cradled my unswaddled guitar to my chest attempting to keep my baby from going out of tune in the cold between car and station. Inside the lobby, Libby Kirkpatrick greeted me with warm coffee and praise for my song on the CD, “and I’m picky,” she added. Her soft brown curls threatened to spring like kamikaze pilots from her head. Moved by her sincere words, I felt a rush of gratitude.

As our estrogen rich collective filled the halls drinking coffee and laughing over road tales, Libby suggested I teach the other girls backups to my “Red Room.” I felt honored by their willingness to lend their voices to lifting MY music onto the airwaves. With my orange bunny hat in hand, the morning’s joy set the stage for the upcoming show.

Backstage, downstairs, in the blue lights of the green room, we primped, trying on wigs, high-top tube socks, tiaras and taffeta tutus. We bartered in horror stories from our travels and consoled each other’s laments and losses. We learned each other’s songs, going two and three at a time into the dimly lit bathroom with guitars to rehearse harmonies without disturbing the camaraderie of our sisters outside.

The stage was lit up with candles and feather boas, guitars and a smattering of percussion instruments shaped like exotic fruit. The audience’s faces were glowing and adoring and supportive. The lineup was: Beth Quist, Maya Dorn, Jude Ponds, Nicole Jamrose, Marie Beer, Monica Augustine, Wendy Woo, Libby Kirkpatrick, Me, Maggie Simpson and Hannah Alkire.

Each Woman took the spotlight for a short set while the rest of us watched from the stairwell in admiration. The night went off without a hitch. All the ladies joined me for “Happy Now” and as our voices braided into one siren call, I thought how lucky I am to have such remarkable, beautiful and talented female friends. Friends, strong enough to support one another’s talent rather than see it as competition to try to tare down.

The snow, which had turned to rain, was pounding and cold when we loaded our instruments into the back alley around 3 a.m. I was buzzing as I kissed and hugged my tribe goodbye and drove home. When I walked in my front door, the electricity blew, leaving me to strip out of wet, clinging clothes in the dark. As I did so, I wondered suspiciously if my inner voltage had caused the blackout.

I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well.

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Boulder, CO – “I Miss The Road” – April 4, 1999

Perhaps it was naive to expect that I could catapult myself a thousand miles away, sing in front of hundreds, grow accustomed to strangers and strange beds, cope with peeing in cups and between cars, and return home unchanged.

Now I am depressed, mourning the person I was just over a month ago. I’m left curious about who I am now and what that will mean for my existing relationships. Kipp wants me to move in with him. That seems unwise and unlikely.

I feel hollow. It’s Easter and I imagine my mom, at home on Martha’s Vineyard, hiding easter eggs and crying that Ben and I are on separate tours and not there to find them. The soft pink carpet under my feet feels like luxurious, alien moss as I wander to and from the bathroom. For the past four days at home, this has been the extent of my travels; my daily commute. I’ve been trying to find my land legs, but I’m trapped in a flannel cocoon, unable to lift my aluminum blinds to discern day from night. I find myself unable to return phone calls—even to close friends—much less meet up for coffee.

I guess I miss the road. I long for the novelty of waking up in a different hotel room each morning, the freedom to not make my bed. I yearn for midnight diners, shared laughter with Nisa in dimly lit green rooms, and gas station breakfasts. I miss the thrill of stage lights, the sensation of eyes upon me as I pour out a song, the intimate act of signing CDs, arms, and guitars. I miss the camaraderie of new friends, a cold beer on stage, the buzz of neon lights, and even the stench of Clorox battling the backdrop of smoke, spirits, spilled guts, and bad tunes. I miss the open road. I miss my band.

My heart is heavy and my head is full of these soporific thoughts as I commute through alien moss from the bathroom back to my flannel haven.

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Boulder, CO – “Nisa” – March 16, 1999

Nisa’s been my best friend since I was 7. We shared the same babysitter, Valarie Nuick, who wore vanilla bean essential oil, spoke softly and seemed to swallow her laughter before it escaped her lips. She was young and fun and sometimes let us tag along to her retail job. She worked at “The Song of the Reed,” a magical clothing store known on Martha’s Vineyard for importing Afghani jewelry and Middle Eastern textiles.

On weekends Val would lug us into the store. She’d unbolt a door built into the stairwell, hand us two dull knives, and leave us to work breaking down boxes for a quarter an hour while she lit Nag Champa and put Jackson Brown on the tape deck. Nisa was older than me by two years and the most glorious creature I’d ever seen. Her skin appeared to emit flecks of gold. I, on the other hand, was scrawny with gangly legs that threatened to tangle in the wind and cornsilk hair that disobeyed hairbrushes. Nisa was beautiful the way goddesses and queens are beautiful. She carried herself above the rest, looking out on the world ambivalently while braiding her heart in thorns and barbed wire. Oh, how I dreamed of getting past her defenses and scoring the privilege of knowing her heart.

Slowly, one box at a time, I gained her confidence. Under the bare blub, under the “Song of the Reed” stairwell, we found occasions for laughter. We discovered we were both boy-crazy and confided our crushes to one another. After flattening boxes, we played dress-up, admiring ourselves in floor-length mirrors wearing headscarves and beaded kaftans. We got drunk on incense.

Before we could drive, Nisa and I would ride my tiny white pony bareback through the woods to meet up with her boyfriend. “Gusty,” who was 30, spicy and infuriated at being made to trot two tittering teenagers around, often succeeded in bucking one or both of us off. Barefoot, I’d wait outside Nisa’s boyfriend’s house to keep a lookout for grown-ups while she got to first base.

Later, we dated two brothers, the eldest of “The Blackdog” family. Robbie and Jamie Douglas were windsurfers. When Nisa got her licence we’d drive to meet them on the shore in her beefed-up black jeep. We’d stop at Dairy Queen and splurge on XXL rainbow sprinkle ice cream cones which would stick to our hair in the wind while we watched our brothers skip back and forth over the waves. We daydreamed about marrying them and becoming sisters one day. Jamie is the one who “takes to downtown, brown suburban in the rain,” in Sign of Rain.”

Nisa came to all my Boggies shows. She raided the island’s thrift stores and found ways of making polyester sexy. And when I told her I was moving west, starting my own band and going on the road she said “When should I be there?”

“You’ll come out on the road with me?!?! Really?”

“Of course! I’ll sell your merch for you and beat the boys away.”

“Well, come on then.”

She’s been with us since March 1^st. Having Nisa in the van is like having cotton candy for breakfast. It’s fun, delicious, and slightly naughty. Reunited we’re immediately 7 again, back under those stairs at “Song of the Reed,” getting bucked off my pony into puddles, picking rainbow sprinkles out of each other’s hair and daydreaming about what we’ll be when we grow up. I am so blessed to have scored the privilege of knowing her heart. I am so privileged to have her along on for the ride that is this life.

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Boulder, Co – “Let’s Get This Rodeo On The Roadeo”- March 1, 1999

This morning, my band (MY BAND!!!!) congregated like a murder of crows on my lawn at 6th & Pine to pack Moby for our very first national tour!

I’ve felt tucked into the borders of Colorado as though the state were a bed with confining sheets. While this tour has us warming up in Colorado, playing now-familiar venues and occasionally returning us to our homes in Boulder to water plants and sleep in our own beds, I feel gitty about escaping the confines of Colorado’s borders and exploring the wider nation.

I was beside myself with excitement as I skipped down my driveway to meet Kenny, Brian and the two Chris’ in my new green felted clogs. In the sparse days leading to departure, I’d managed to get all our instruments insured and (by the skin of my teeth, Kipp’s invaluable wisdom, and his fully decked out tool chest) remove two of Moby’s back seats to replace them with a ‘gear cage.’

“This cage will prevent your gear from decapitating you whenever you break at a stop light,” said a nonchalant Kipp who, having managed bands for the last 10 years, should know.

We played Tetris with equipment. “This is a one-time thing,” apologized Delluchi after the first hour of finagling guitar cases, bass amps, and suitcases. “But it’s imperative we figure out which instruments fit by size, weight, and fragility and then, after every gig, we’ll repack the van exactly the same way every time.” Chris Delluchi our soundman and tour manager is a road veteran and when he says “jump” I ask “How high?” But he’s never stern. He’s a muppet of a man, with Pantene bouncing shoulder-length hair and the town-given title of “nicest guy in the universe,” or so says 9 out of 10 people.

Once Chris was happy with our Tetris-configured boot, he gave us a nod and a whistle and like obedient show dogs we leapt in the van with our tails wagging.

Riding shotgun, I stared at the postcard I’d snail-mailed to a scant but burgeoning list of fans, addresses for whom I’d started collecting last month at shows on Kipp’s recommendation. I felt bad about taking Kipp for granted the last few weeks as I realized I couldn’t have done 1/2 of this without him.

The truth is, my boyfriend Kipp Stroden, more than anyone or anything in the world (including my Mom or Dad, all the music business books I’ve devoured, and a lifetime of experience playing in indie bands) has taught me more about the ins and outs of the indie music business and made the possibility of my being a solo touring artist a reality.

I have been a shitty girlfriend.

On the postcard was an image of me hitching a ride down a country road with a list of West Coast tour dates overlayed in black, routing us through Colorado, California, Oregon and Washington State.

Was I ready for this? You bet I was.

‘I hardly know these guys I’m traveling with.’ I thought to myself. ‘Am I crazy setting off on an month-long adventure with four strangers who might snore and fart and have mommy issues and bad breath not to mention might try to murder me in my sleep?’ But it was too late.

But Here is what I know so far about my band…

Kenny reads constantly. He brings a handleless grocery bag brimming with paperback, tattered, bodice rippers everywhere he goes. He inhales one after the other; you seldom catch him unglued to a page.

Brian is constantly making up new drum beats on his “Red Box” (which we playfully refer to as his “girlfriend” because he loves it so much). He’s always trying to get one of us to listen to his newest sample.

The jury is still out on Chris Soucy as we only just hired him two weeks ago. But so far, I find him meticulous. He’s very exact, always on time, always on the beat and he hates chord progressions that are not in the same key (I’m hoping to break him of that).

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Boulder, CO – “Losing MORE of my Band” – February 4, 1999

Dang!…I lost another guitar player yesterday and a soundman to boot.

I met up with Greg Mcrae at “Robb’s Music,” the store I visited when I first moved to town to tare “LEAD SINGER WANTED” tags off local band fliers when I was still living in my car. Together, Greg and I ambled to “Sandy’s” for coffee. He was predictably heavy, like an overcast sky and I was anxious and overcompensating and filling silences with uninteresting antidotes.

The truth I was trying to dance around is that Greg, while a great sound engineer and a stand-up guy and, frankly, a total trouper for filling in for Jeremy since his departure, is not a great guitar player. Honestly, he’d be the first to admit it. But it didn’t lessen the blow when I asked him last week if he’d be willing to continue with us next tour as our sound man instead of guitarist. I understood his disappointment entirely and felt terrible I’d leaned so heavily on him the last couple of months only to banish him from the spotlight. I’m sure he felt the transition was a demotion and his sideway glances confirmed my suspicion.

Sandy’s was alive with busy waitresses whiping their hands on soiled aprons and taking orders with sharp pencils and pursed lips. Caffeinated teaspoons clattered like dull swards in caffeinated beverages. Claiming a booth, I showed Greg a list of shows and venues booked for our first West Coast tour starting in March. He slouched against the hard, orange, pleather seat and in a harsh, detergent-like voice said, “$350 a week?!?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m losing money on the tour,” I chewed on my words and rolled a bit of napkin between my fingers to abate my anxiety. I didn’t mention I’d already asked around town about the going rate for a touring sound engineer and everyone reassured me my offer was a great deal).

“These venues suck,” he didn’t look up from the sheet. With a smudge for a pair of lips and a sigh of resignation, I said, “That’s what we’ve got.”

“I mean, I might be more interested if these were better-sounding rooms but these’ll just suck.” He punctuated the last word like a frog catching a fly.

“You know man,” I said, hoping I sounded more sympathetic than pathetic, “I don’t want you to do it if you’re not psyched. I mean, the last thing I want on the road is someone who doesn’t want to be there.”

“–The truth is,” he cut me off, “I’m thinking about getting out of the music business altogether. I think I might try to get a real job while I still can.” He squinted at the inked tour dates like they were tea leaves that might tell his future.

We sat in silence for a sip or two before he put the paper down.

“But maybe I’ll change my mind, who knows.”

He stood up and chucked a buck on the linoleum. My racing mind straddled two tracks. The first track had me convinced: “I’m done. I’m going to have to cancel this tour. I can’t find a guitarist AND a soundman in less than an month.” But the other track reassured me, “This is a blessing in disguise. All of this is happening for a reason.”

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Boulder, CO – “My Stomach Aches for my Mama” – December 17, 1998

I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Perhaps it’s because of the severe intestinal flu that sent me to the ER for an anti-nausea IV in the middle of the night on Monday. More likely it’s from the confounding questions my new booking agent, Cassy Burbeck needs answers to before he can start booking a national tour for me. Casey wants to know: What’s my budget? What’s on my rider? Who’s in my band? What is my stage plot (what even is a stage plot?) Will we be ready in time for the Lillith Fair? Where do I see myself in 6 months? A year? A decade? I can’t imagine where I’ll be in 6 days let alone 6 months. But I need a booking agent. Booking myself is just the pits! Venues stiff me and won’t call back to confirm the show beforehand. Having booked my shows for three months now, I know exactly how much I’d pay not to have to do this job anymore, and when Casey says the going rate for agents is 10% of all gigs, that seems more than fair to me.

But my stomach still hurts, even after reconciling with my choice to hire Casey and answer all his scary questions and when I ask my stomach to tell me what’s at the root of its dis-ease an image pops up in my mind of my mama. Earlier in the week, she was driving in her car, just minding her own business and was delighted when one of her songs came on the radio. As she retold the story to me later in the evening on the phone, I imagined her bopping along to “You’re so Vain,” or “Jesse” or “Coming Around Again” as she threaded her way home, over backroads lined with puckerbrush and winter white slush on Martha’s Vineyard.

At the end of her song, the DJ took a random caller who said “I saw Carly Simon at the anti-impeachment rally the other day and she looked awful. I tell ya, I used to dig her when she was hanging around with James Taylor but she’s gotten OLD man.” My mama recounted the insouciant caller with a New York accent.

“Yeah, her skin’s all wrinkly.” agreed the DJ.

“I guess that’s what happens when ya get old.” the caller theorized, “Your skin starts fallin’ off the bone.” They both laughed. My mama cried all day. I would too. “It’s not fair mama.” I told her, “You’re sooooo beautiful! You’re timeless. You’re so talented. You’re a legend!” and I thought ‘why am I going into this profession?!?!

As I hung up I just kept telling myself ‘It’ll be OK. The work I’ve done on myself will spare me the worst of my ego’s weaponry down the line.’ But more than anything, I worry about getting hijacked by the spotlight and imprisoned by the applause. Here are some exercises I promise myself to do to avoid the consequences of my future successes and failures.

I’ll make fun of myself.
I’ll make a point of enjoying other’s successes.
I’ll separate my self-worth from my music’s value to others.
I’ll never be jealous or bitter.
I’ll never do anything just because it’ll “look good,” or “boost my image.”
I’ll believe in everyone I surround myself with.
I’ll stay curious and humble and trust my decisions.
I won’t trust anyone.

I hope it’s enough. I’m sorry mama. It’s not fair. My stomach aches for you.

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Boulder, CO – “Opening for Little Feet” – Fox Theater – December 13, 1998

I woke up on a sunburnt, brown, valore couch belonging to Charlie, a pal of a pal of a pal of Kipps who put us up after a late night turned into an early morning. A river bent itself around the small timber-frame shack like a boa constrictor. I noticed other lumps sleeping on other surfaces around the bright livingroom and registered them as musicians from various bands passing through town. Their instruments lay naked in various semi-precarious possitions. A guitarist was actually using his ax as a pillow. I picked at an unreasonable amount of dog hair in the blanket covering me, before realizing it actually was the dog’s blanket. A golden retriever stared at me with hunched ears. I imagined the inquisitive expression he wore pertained to my insensitivity having robbed him of his comforter overnight.

We opened for Little Feet at the Fox last night and the audience drank us up like a sponge. Valiant fans shushed and shooed stray voices that arose to inadvertently distract them from earview. They thought I was funny too and they laughed in tandem as I told only semi-funny jokes and danced around in gold and green shimmering stage lights. I wasn’t even nervous. But there’s nothing like a horrendous gig to make all subsequent gigs feel freeing and nothing could have been as horrendous as the gig in Telluride.

As I repositioned my sleep-kinked body to make room for the disgruntled dog, Charlie appeared in blue boxers and a head full of electrified hair. Coffee in hand and lashes pasted shut he stole the space I’d just freed for his pup and muttered “I like you’re CD more than Alanis Morrissette’s” then, promptly fell asleep to open-mouth chainsaw the air with snoring. The other bodies sang along.

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Boulder, CO – Leggo My Ego – May 29, 1998

Things have been crazy and now I HATE my album. I never want to hear any of these songs ever again after this damn thing is over.

I’ve been singing out of tune for DAYS! It’s driving me crazy and I drove home tonight listening to music I couldn’t bear to sing along with least I’d have to hear my own voice.

Sometimes I have a shitty day. I haven’t slept well or eaten enough or I’ve eaten too much or not exercised. These are the days I worried about to Fausta back in her hippy therapy shack on Martha’s Vineyard.

It’s these days when my soul feels rubbed raw and every voice in my head is yelling “What do you think you’re doing? You are SHIT at this! Your songs suck. Your voice sucks. You can’t play guitar for shit and you look like ass.” During these self-abusive sessions, I look to anything that will drown the voices out. Sometimes a drink puts the fire out. Sometimes I just have to go to bed. But when I can’t sleep, I turn to applause to repair the cuts and bruises I inflict on myself. The battery is relentless and can go on for days.

Sleep is the healthiest of my crutches but it doesn’t always work. Last night, for instance, I woke up with the fullest brain of assholes I’ve ever experienced. “You can’t be a musician.” They said, “You suck and your songs suck.” “You can’t perform.” “What were you thinking recording a demo?”

Sometimes I feel so small that if my body were just a 1/2 a pound lighter I’d fall through the cracks in the sidewalk. In these moments I say to myself “I’m nothing. I am nothing. I am a housewife. I am Betty Crocker and where’s my little tiny cooking set?”

And then I feel sudden bouts of relief. The sort that alo vera brings to burns, the sort that tingles like mint jelly on lamb chops, the sort that nibbles like patient waves at the crust of a shoreline. But then the dis-ease begins again and I want to scream and fill canyons with echos. Instead, I silently cry and scratch my face until the pain subsides.

I had to wake Kipp and beg him to hold me “Just talk me down.” I begged, my breathless tears nearly strangling me as he rocked me back to sleep.

Booze and applause are decidedly the more detrimental of my crutches. And, while alcoholism runs in my family and is a risky rod to bait, an addiction to applause would surely take me down quicker than a career in booze. Drinking applause when you need it is different from accepting it as an unnecessary gift. It wakes my roaring ego, that dangerous and skilled villain, who speaks to me in my own voice and locks me out of my own soul.

How I’ll stay away from ego:

I’ll make fun of myself.
I’ll make a point of enjoying other success.
I’ll love myself regardless of whether others enjoy my music.
I’ll never be jealous or bitter. I’ll never do anything just because it might “look good” or “boost my image” but I will believe in everyone I surround myself with and I will believe in all my decisions.

I feel 8 months pregnant with this record. It’s too late to turn back now and yet I’m scared as shit to give birth to it and set it free into the world. How will it be received? Who will love it? Does it matter?

I just want perform to my very best, sing with all my might, and do it to an absorbent crowd.

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